Who’s Driving The Car?

Who’s driving the Car?

My grandfather is driving the car. He’s driving a blue Vauxwagon Beetle. It was never a trendy car. It was a family car.

The most reassuring and soothing sound in the world was the tick tock of its indicator as grandfather drove us home. Tick tock, tick tock… Everything had to turn out all right when you heard that. It could not turn out otherwise. The car even smelled reassuring. It somehow smelt of bread and love. Actually the smell of bread wasn’t such a mystery since my grand father delivered Greek finger bread for a living and generous as ever; he would bring boxes of bread to us in the weekend. The sesame seed must have lingered, as did the love.

Sat by the side of my grandfather was my grandmother. Rarely a cross word was exchanged, but good-natured banter was plentiful. All those times I sat in the back, never did I think about their mortality. Some how I fooled myself into thinking that they and the car would still be running even when I reached 100. Perhaps the tick tock, tick tock… helped my mind defy logic.

This was the first car I was ever driven in. I was collected from the maternity hospital with this vehicle as my parents lived with my grandparents for the first 3 years of their marriage.

Quite often it was hard for grandfather to find a parking space when he got us home. Inderwick Road was full of cars even in the late 1960’s. ‘Oh well… Nothing is guaranteed in this life…’ he’d say and park halfway down the hill.

Tick tock, tick tock… Although I didn’t admit it, time was ticking on and I no longer heard that indicator after grandfather bought a new car. I can’t remember what model it was, but I recall that it was green and from Japan. There was still a lovely atmosphere inside it, but the indicator wasn’t so magical. How I wished that I had captured that old tick tock in a bottle so that I could listen to it in times of stress. The final times I visited my grandmother in hospital. The final times I visited my father in hospital. The final times I spoke to my grandfather. That indicator knew where it was going far more than I ever did.

Who’s driving the Car?

My father — driving an always dirty looking silver grey Renault 12 which despite repeated scrubbings of the seats after a mishap with some milk, still smelt of milk. And there was always some sand even if holidays had been months ago. Not such a reassuring experience. Even more stressful, if my mother sat beside him.

Arguments would normally start the moment the key was put in the ignition. Very often they were running late and my mother was the cause. It didn’t bother her tremendously. ‘It’s polite to be late!’ she would say. ‘Not for a job interview!’ my father would scream. So often my father would be yelling ‘We’re going to be late!!!’ when they had set off for an appointment. It was as if Nuclear Armageddon was imminent. Being late was the worst thing in the world for him. He needed a special gear in the car for him to the put the situation into perspective. My mother’s calm regard for their plight if anything, exacerbated my father’s demeanour. If my mother had pretended to panic, I honestly think it would have calmed him down.

In later life, my father did calm down maybe due to accumulated wisdom and maybe due to no longer having the energy to be manic anyway. And I — a confirmed pedestrian, his frequent passenger, appreciated what a good driver he was. As his emphysema progressed, his car became practically his legs. In his final years, he could barely walk for more than 2 minutes. The car made him feel less of a victim. He could still be of use to his family. When I came to visit, I’d find him there — parked outside Queensbury station — waiting to take me to my old family home.

In his final year with added lung cancer to contend with, his attempts to drive led to panic attacks. So his car lay idle in the driveway — growing moss as it does today — its battery flat — a relic from a bygone era — a relic from another life.

Who’s driving the Car?

It’s my baby sister! Joanna’s 40 years old, yet I still think of her as my baby sister. I was still calling her baby 20 years ago. When she was giving me a lift once I said ‘Wow, you look so grown-up behind the wheel!’ ‘Very funny!!’ she replied. Of the siblings, she is the most mature, the most responsible. My other sister is learning to drive, but I don’t even have the aspiration. Sometimes, late at night, when my sister is driving home, she looks at the back seat of her car and sees her 2 children sleeping there and she still can’t believe it.